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A letter to my daughter on her second birthday

Dear Claire (on your second birthday), Every Sunday evening, I take out the trash. I ask you to help. "OK," you say. I carry your 25-pound body to the garage and plop your butt on top the trash can. When I rock the can back on its wheels, you fall onto my chest and cling there like a koala. I roll you to the end of the driveway, and we drop off the trash. It's so cosmically insignificant, and yet one of my favorite moments every week. It's thirty seconds when we're together, your head against my chest, us scanning the sky, looking up at the moon and the stars. I heard once that it's impossible to be grateful and upset at the same time. So every day, I try to name at least three...

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